Episode 2: The Tragic Mulatto Chronicles

An Important Meeting

I’M SCHEDULED TO MEET A PRODUCER who’s done a ton of respectable work with some of music’s biggest talent. (Michael Jackson anyone? Yikes!)

I sit feverishly at my digital piano working through song ideas from the last three years: ideas scribbled down from early morning dreams; transcripts from relationships that worked (or didn’t); random musings that felt inspiring at the time.

My baby sleeps upstairs for his morning nap. I’ve got two hours (at most) to myself. As much as I want to bang this out on my pink baby grand in the living room, (it’s how I feel most connected to my music) I remain at my digital piano playing stiffly with Apple earbuds jammed into my ears.

My heart races. What if he doesn’t like my music? I feel like the cast of characters in A Chorus Line: “God I hope I get it, I hope I get it! How many people does he need?”

I was introduced to Bob, (let’s just call him Bob, okay?) by an artist acquaintance one random afternoon while sitting in my car parked on Melrose. Bob feels like he might be someone I can make great music with. So far we’ve had one phone conversation, and even though I was nervous throughout the entire thing, I felt comfortable enough to share the album concept and my intention to get the project going now. There was at least one moment when I felt like I was just talking to an old friend. That felt great.

Bob said he’d love to hear what I’d been working on and suggested we meet at his studio in a week’s time. Oh shit.

Throughout the following week I thought about our phone meeting. I found myself fantasizing about the album: how amazing it’s gonna be, how it’s going to change lives, and how fun it will be to be back on the road touring. I saw crowds of happy people in the audience, arms raised while singing along to the lyrics…

My baby starts sleep crying. Shoot. It’s the type of crying when he’s not yet awake, but at any moment could wake himself up inadvertenly. Damn baby go back to sleep! There’s one more song I want to get through. Please? He quiets down. Yes!

As I play on my keyboard, I have a sudden thought, a fear, that my fingers are going to forget what they’re supposed to do the minute I sit down at his piano. Trust. Trust. Trust. But in what? My fingers? They have forgotten before (especially when I’m nervous.)

The truth is, I love the music that comes through me. It’s edgy, quirky, catchy, beautiful; and most importantly, it comes from deep within. It’s REAL. I wish it was enough (for me) to be satisfied with making music exclusively for myself. I think I’d be happiest because then I wouldn’t have to deal with all the fear and insecurity that comes from the nagging urge to get it out into the world. But, I’m a sharer. For better or worse.